


Damn Your Lettuce

by Scutter



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scutter/pseuds/Scutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of snipets inspired by Grunt's *ahem* drunken wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damn Your Lettuce

The young krogan were tearing around the compound, yelling insults to each other, or encouragements to their own team mates, while the adults watched on with pride. The game was an obstacle course, set up to run through the weapons training arena, through the female’s meeting area, through the food storage crates, then across an open field to the finish line.

The race was on between two young males, each of them the last in their relay teams, each determined to reach the finish line first. They’d climbed the stack of crates filled with dried varren meat. They’d crawled under the vines growing the tuchankan equivalent of pumpkins. They’d dodged the knives used for slicing up slaughtered pyjacks.

But as the slight older, slightly faster male rounded the corner of the last hurdle before a sprint across the open field, he happened to catch a glimpse of the stray supplies left out on the counter, happened to reach out and grab a handful of green leaves, tumbling them to the ground…

And as the younger krogan rounded the corner, he stepped on the spilled produce, green and leafy, just slick enough to cause him to skid and slide and fall to the floor in an undignified heap, giving the older krogan the clear lead in the race for the finish.

And as he slid to the floor in an undignified heap, the krogan youth could be heard to mutter a half-hearted, defeat-laden curse. 

“Damn your lettuce…”


	2. I've Got Five Credits

The group of young krogan were standing around outside the Armax Arena, looking for all the world like someone had killed their favourite fighting varren. 

“I’m sorry,” the asari behind the counter said. “The group discount brings the total cost for a game to 185 credits. You only have 180 credits. I can’t give you any further discount.”

Near the back of the group, the youngest krogan, a runt by anyone’s standards, searched through his pockets… eyes opening wide with glee as he found five credits, tucked away in a hidden corner. “I’ve got five credits,” he said happily. But the taller krogan in front of him ignored him.

“Come on,” the oldest krogan said to the sales clerk, trying to look pleading and innocent – quite the feat for any krogan. “It’s only five credits. And we came all the way down here from Zakera ward. Please?”

“I’m sorry. Full price is 250 credits. I’ve already given you a sizable discount.”

“What if we took one less person in?”

The runt sagged unhappily, knowing he was at the top of the list of people to leave behind. They’d only let him tag along because his father was a warlord. They didn’t really want him here, but he’d been determined to keep up, to show them he could be a real krogan. “But I’ve got five credits,” he said mournfully.

But then the sales clerk spoke again. “I’m sorry, but if only five of you go in, then you lose the group discount. The cost would be 210 credits.”

“I’ve got five credits!” the runt said louder. Maybe, if he saved the game for all of them, they would start accepting him as a real krogan…

“Man, this sucks,” the leader of the group whined. “We offer to give you less work to do, and you charge us more money!”

“The policy is set by management,” the sales clerk explained, looking like she’d had this conversation with dozens of teenagers in the past, and knew it well. “I don’t have the authority to change it. Please move aside. You’re blocking the entrance way.”

Okay, the runt thought to himself. Enough was enough. He drew in a deep breath, braced himself, and yelled “I’VE GOT FIVE CREDITS!”

The entire group turned to stare at him in astonishment. “Here,” he said, holding out the credits to the leader. “Now we can all have a game.”

The leader didn’t move for a moment. And then he reached forward and took the credits, adding them to the pile on the counter. “A group discount for six players,” the leader said triumphantly. “And _he_ ,” he jerked his head at the runt, “is coming on my team.”


	3. They Don't Look Like Birds. They Look Like Cats.

The Alliance Admiral stared at the comm screen in shock. Two Alliance vessels had vanished without a trace in the last half hour, with no apparent explanation for the loss. An asteroid storm? A freakishly coincidental dual malfunction? So it was both a concern and a relief when two soldiers, a Major and a Lieutenant burst into the room, wearing twin expressions of horror and excitement. 

“Sir, we’ve found… It’s unbelievable…”

“…I thought I was seeing things…”

“…not in your wildest imagination…”

“…out of a science fiction vid…”

The words tumbled out as they spoke over the top of each other until the Admiral interrupted them. “Enough! Just tell me what the hell happened out there.”

There was a pause. The Major glanced at the Lieutenant. “Aliens, sir,” the Lieutenant said, trying to contain his excitement. “First contact.”

The entire room froze in stunned silence.

“Aliens with some incredibly high tech weapons,” the Major added. “I think we just started a war.”

There was a lot of running around and shouting after that. Ships were sent out to meet this alien foe, soldiers on leave were called back to active duty, a flurry of reports were sent to Earth.

But finally, in a quiet moment, the Admiral’s curiosity got the better of him. “What did they look like?” he asked. “The aliens, I mean.”

The Lieutenant was first to reply. “They looked like… birds. I mean, they were bipedal, two arms, two legs, but they have this… crest-thing on their heads. And their legs aren’t like ours. They bend differently. And their skin is… it’s almost like scales, or maybe an exoskeleton. I’m not sure.”

But the Major was shaking his head. “They don’t look like birds. They look like cats. Huge claws on their hands, and a real predatory look in their eyes. And their jaws are on the outside. They kind of look like lizards as well, I suppose. Sorry sir, but I couldn’t get a clear picture of one.”

 

 

Far away in the turian military command centre, a group of soldiers was gathered around a map of the local star cluster, bright red dots highlighting the location of each human vessel.

“So what does this new species look like?” the General asked. “And if any one says they look like the asari, he’s going to be scrubbing the latrines for a week.”

One young sergeant had opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again. The General caught the move and grinned. “Tonis, you just volunteered for latrine duty.” The sergeant groaned and sighed. “Hell, even the salarians think the asari look like them,” the General griped. “Something about appealing skin tones. Anyone else?”

“They look kind of like varren, if you ask me,” a Lieutenant offered. “Wide eyed, dopey grin, rushing straight into battle without assessing their opponent. And their weapons are the most primitive I’ve seen. Bullets made out of solid metal, no tech in them at all.”

The General grinned. It was good news, a species that should be easily subdued. The last thing they needed was another round with something as challenging as the rachni. No, these humans would be an insignificant species, barely worthy of a footnote in history. Just wait and see…


	4. It Was Broken When I Got Here

Shepard emerged from the Urdnot base on Tuchanka… and pulled up short. “EDI,” he asked, opening a comm channel. “Where’s the shuttle?” They had left it on the landing pad, and surely the krogan wouldn’t have stolen it? Aside from a few detractors, they were all on good terms with each other.

“Grunt took some of his new friends on a joy ride,” EDI said calmly. “I advised him that it was unwise, due to his lack of training as a shuttle pilot, but he insisted.”

“Oh, for the love of… Where is he now?”

“The shuttle is stationary on a small rocky outcrop two clicks north of you. I believe it is no longer functional.”

Shepard closed his eyes and fought for patience. Somehow, he’d thought Grunt’s behaviour would improve after his rite of passage.

“Stealing a shuttle from his own Commander. Even I’m impressed with that,” Kasumi said from behind him, and Shepard just rolled his eyes.

 

Half an hour later, Shepard jumped out of the truck and thanked the krogan who had driven them out. Grunt and four other krogan were standing by the shuttle – which had smoke pouring from the engine – having a heated argument. It tailed off as Shepard approached.

“Battlemaster,” Grunt greeted him deferentially. 

“What happened to the shuttle, Grunt?” Shepard asked, trying to stay calm.

Grunt shrugged. “Don’t know. It was broken when I got here.”


	5. Duct Tape

The Normandy had been asked to transport the salarian prisoner to the Citadel to face terrorism charges before the Council. A small group of rogue STG operatives had developed a chemical weapon capable of paralyzing any levo-amino life form, and had been discovered when a ‘test-run’ on a human colony had been leaked – the leak due to the wily actions of an eight year old boy. Well, if there was one interesting result to come of this, it was that salarians would never again underestimate human offspring.

Shepard had been all too happy to apprehend the culprit, securing him in the lower engineering deck until they reached the Citadel.

Unfortunately, he was rapidly running out of crew members willing to guard the prisoner. Since being arrested, he had not yet stopped talking even once, using masterful skill at choosing species-specific topics most likely to irritate the guard of the moment. To Miranda, he’d talked of the humans killed in the first contact war. To Tali, he’d reminisced about the uprising of the geth. To Shepard himself, he’d detailed the beautiful intricacies of thresher maws, how evolution had turned them into the perfect killing machine, and after an hour or so, even Shepard’s legendary patience had run thin, images of his battle on Akuze rising to haunt him. 

Shepard had promised the council he wouldn’t kill the salarian, a promise he intended to keep if only because they had yet to capture the last two members of the rogue group, and he didn’t want to risk their weapon being deployed again.

In an act of desperation, he’d finally sent Grunt down, with specific instructions that he not harm the salarian, but a vague hope that the inevitable jabs about the genophage wouldn’t bother the tank-bred krogan as much as they would any other member of his species. 

That had been three hours ago, and he’d heard not a peep out of the pair since.

Garrus was next to take guard duty, and Shepard was waiting for Grunt with open curiosity when he arrived back in the CIC.

“How did it go?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer.

“Went well,” Grunt said. “I thought maybe he’d be bored, so I recited krogan poetry to him. ‘Kalros, destroyer of cities, your destruction is total. Your destruction is complete. Kalros, your children destroy, leaving rubble-“

“Okay, got it,” Shepard interrupted before he could get too carried away. “Nice work. But… how did you get him to shut up and listen?”

Grunt looked genuinely surprised at the question and Shepard had the fleeting thought that whatever threat Grunt had come up with must have been harsh indeed.  
But the answer was delightfully simple, as the krogan mind was wont to be.

“Duct tape.”


	6. I Found This Blue Rock For You, Liara

The young krogan watched the team of archeologists with rapt attention. They were carefully and meticulously scouring the dig site, slow sweeps of their brushes, careful monitoring of their computer readouts, and every now and then one of them would discover a blue-tinged rock. With great reverence, they would pick it out of the sand, cradle it in their hands and carry it over to the lead archeologist.

And it was her who had captured the young krogan’s attention. Dr. Liara T’soni. He hadn’t been able to believe it when she’d first come to Tuchanka. He’d overheard the rumors, things he didn’t understand, but littered with worlds like ‘Prothean’ and ‘memory shard’. They were looking for something important, he knew. Something extremely old and valuable. And it had something to do with all those blue rocks.

The moment he’d first laid eyes on Dr. T’soni, he’d fallen in love with her. She was beautiful, smooth blue skin, sharp, watchful eyes. But it was the stories of her past that had really fascinated him. She was 500 years old, give or take, and his father had told him that she’d fought in the war with the reapers. Been part of the crew of the Normandy. Fought alongside the famous and heroic Commander Shepard himself. She was a living legend, and he’d sat beside the dig site each and every day since then, captivated by her as she worked.

Another of the archeologists found one of those all-important blue rocks, carried it over to Dr. T’soni and handed it to her. She examined it carefully, then placed it under a machine of some sort, peering at the screen hopefully… only to shake her head sadly, as she had with ever other blue rock. He hated seeing her looking so sad, and he thought maybe if he could find his own blue rock for her, she’d be happy. He looked around the ledge he was sitting on and started picking through the rocks. Red. Black. Brown. Another red one. He dug deeper, imagining that one day he’d be an archeologist himself, working alongside Dr. T’soni on a real dig. 

And then he found it! A blue rock, opaque and vivid, quite unlike the translucent blue-tinted shards the archeologists had been finding. 

But she hadn’t liked any of their rocks, so maybe she’d like his better. It was quite a blot bluer than the others.

The young krogan climbed off the ledge and trod carefully along the marked out paths through the dig site. He reached Dr. T’soni and tugged on her sleeve, excited beyond belief to be this close to her.

“I found this blue rock for you, Liara,” he said, then instantly blushed from having inadvertently used her first name. ‘Dr. T’soni’ would have been much more respectful.

 

Liara looked down at the young krogan in surprise. He held out a rock that was bright blue, nothing at all like the memory shard Javik had once shown her so long ago. It was nothing like what she was looking for, but the krogan looked so hopeful that she didn’t dare disappoint him. With a smile and a thank you, she put the rock into the electromagnetic scanner and flicked the switch. The readings came up and she prepared herself to tell the krogan that it wasn’t what she was looking for… until the machine suddenly beeped. Three peaks, equidistant at just the right frequencies. It couldn’t be.

She fiddled with the knobs, disbelief warring with excitement… and yes! There was a fourth peal, at the other end of the spectrum. A perfect match to Javik’s shard.

“This is it,” she said, stunned. And then excitement took over. “This is it! You found it! It’s a memory shard!” She grabbed the krogan and hugged him, then yelled for her team, who came running. “He found it! We’ve got a real, genuine memory shard!”

As the team swarmed around the machine, the young krogan was beaming. Finally, Liara was smiling. And when he grew up, he was going to be an archeologist, and a warrior, just like her.


	7. Are You a Wizard?

In the middle of the citadel’s docks – aka the refugee camp – two asari were discussing a damaged omni-tool. 

“So the video feed just kept freezing up,” one of them said, “so in the end I had to take it to that turian technician, the one Liandra told me about. Oh, he’s an absolute wizard. Had it fixed in no time.”

“Really?” the other asari asked. “Where did you find him?”

“Down in docking bay 85,” the first asari said.

A young krogan happened to be passing by and he caught the tail end of their conversation… but unfortunately, not enough of it to get an accurate picture of the issue. So the young krogan’s next thought was ‘A wizard! There’s a wizard in docking bay 85!’ His parents were otherwise occupied at the moment, so the young krogan decided a little investigation was in order… and a moment later he was racing towards the elevators, on a mission to find the wizard.

 

Docking Bay 85 was crowded, and the young krogan’s face fell. How was he supposed to find the wizard amongst all these people? He started wandering, looking at the card players, the medical bay, the security guards patrolling the passageways. None of them looked like a wizard. He saw an asari fiddling with a computer console. “Are you a wizard?” he asked hopefully.

“No, sorry,” the asari said with a chuckle. “I don’t think there are any wizards on the citadel.”

The krogan shrugged sadly and moved on. He found a human juggling some protein bars. “Are you a wizard?” he asked.

“Nope,” the human replied. “But I could teach you how to juggle.”

“No, thank you,” said the krogan politely, and kept walking. He’d almost given up when he came to a secluded corner, far back in the docks. A salarian was standing behind a table that was weighed down with jars. Some bubbled. Some steamed. Some had strange coloured liquid in them. “Excuse me,” he asked politely. “Are you a wizard?”

The salarian looked up in surprise. “Hmm. Young krogan. Susceptible to influence of mythology. Exercises curiosity. Interest in science to be encouraged.” The salarian took a breath. “Yes, I am a wizard.”

“And can you do magic?”

“Logical conclusion to wizardry. Magic merely correct application of physics and chemistry combined with… showmanship.” He stopped, noticing that the krogan looked confused. “Yes, I can do magic,” he said simply. “I can show you some, if you like.”

“Oh, yes, please!”

The salarian set up a beaker of clear liquid. “My wizard specialty is making colors,” he told the krogan, then handed him another beaker, also containing clear liquid. “Pour this into the other beaker,” he instructed. The krogan did so… and was astonished when the liquid turned bright pink.

“Wow… can you make blue as well?”

“Of course.” The salarian set up another 2 beakers, gave the krogan one… and the liquid turned a greenish blue. 

The krogan was nearly jumping out of his skin in delight. “And what about yellow?” he asked next.

“Can do better than that,” the wizard replied. “I can make yellow sand.” He prepared two more beakers, and the krogan held his breath as he poured the final experiment in. Inside the beaker, a fine yellow powder formed, slowly settling to the bottom. 

“Afraid that’s all I have time for,” the wizard said apologetically. “But enjoyed showing you magic. Please, come and visit again.”

“Oh, I will! And thank you so much!” The young krogan darted away, bursting with joy. He’d met a real live wizard on the citadel! What a tale he’d have to tell all his friends!


	8. Sharks!

Grunt stared through the glass, eyes narrowed in anticipation. “You sure this thing is going to-“

Just as he spoke, the squid inside the aquarium sent out a jet of black ink, fogging the water. By the time the water cleared, the squid was nowhere to be found.

“Heh heh heh… I like it,” Grunt said with approval. “And I thought Earth was covered in weak, squishy things.”

“Squishy we may be,” Shepard told him patiently, “but with some surprising defence mechanisms.”

Ever since Grunt had helped defeat the reaper-mutated rachni, Shepard had been wanting to do something special for him. And now that the reapers were defeated and Grunt had finally found time to visit Earth, he’d come up with the perfect idea. The London Aquarium. It had miraculously survived the invasion, and so far they’d seen the electric eels, the cuttlefish – able to change colour at will, and now the squid. But the best was yet to come.

“Come on,” Shepard hurried Grunt along. “We don’t want to miss feeding time.”

“What are they feeing, again?” Grunt asked, his eyes bright with excitement. 

“Sharks,” Shepard said. “The great white shark, in particular. I think you’ll like it.”

They strolled along the path, through a door, and then into a huge domed aquarium, arching over their heads. A grey nurse shark swam past… then a hammer-head.

“They don’t look very impressive,” Grunt said. “Just big fish.”

“Wait for it,” Shepard told him… and then it came into view, a fully grown great white, cruising lazily over their heads. “That’s the guy to keep an eye on, he said, and Grunt obediently craned his head back to follow the shark’s path.

Above the water, blurry shapes were moving about, the keepers preparing to feel the massive fish. A few small fish were dropped into the tank, quickly snapped up by the smaller sharks. But Grunt kept his eyes on the great white.

And then it was time to feed the bigger sharks. They circled past again, anticipating the food.

The keepers dropped a large chunk of fish into the water – half a blue fin tuna, by the looks of it. The great white spotted the fish and whipped around, quicker than Grunt would have believed possible, given the creature’s previous slow, graceful glide. It raced for the fish, opened its jaws…and great spirits, _this_ was why Shepard had brought him here. Rows and rows of sharp, deadly teeth, as he looked right down the beast’s throat. Then it sank those teeth into the fish, gave a quick shake… and a few moments later, all that was left was a few stray scales and tattered ribbons of flesh, left for the smaller sharks to clean up.

“Heh heh heh,” Grunt chuckled to himself. “Sharks! Thank you, battlemaster. This shark would be a most worthy foe.”

Shepard looked Grunt over, the thick, leathery skin, the bony plates, the fiery attitude. “I think the shark would say the same about you,” he said thoughtfully. 

Grunt grinned. It wasn’t every day that Shepard gave him a compliment like that.


	9. Shotgun. Every Time.

The six soldiers gathered around the game of Galactic Monopoly with expressions that ranged from curiosity to apprehension to a predatory glee. 

“400 credits each”, Shepard said, handing out the imitation credit chits. Then he gathered the 6 playing pieces. “Mordin, you get the table. Garrus, you’re the varren. Joker, the sky car is yours, as requested. Grunt, do you want the grenade, the shotgun or the combat boot?”

Grunt rolled his eyes like it was a stupid question. “Shotgun. Every time.”

“Grenade,” said Jack without being asked, and Shepard accepted the combat boot as his piece without protest.

The monopoly board was remarkably similar to the original game from Earth. Old Kent Road was now Omega – much to Aria T’Loak’s disgust. The train stations had been replaced with Mass Relays and Mayfair was now the Citadel’s Council Chambers. Instead of building houses, the players could erect prefabs on their land, and the chance cards contained things like being fined by C-Sec, or having a Volus earn you a sizable retirement fund.

“Everyone clear on the rules?” Shepard asked.

“So the objective is to take all your opponents’ credits?” Garrus clarified.

“Absolutely,” Shepard agreed. “It’s a game of strategy. With a bit of luck thrown in.”

“Sounds like something a volus thought up,” Mordin observed. “Didn’t think humans were quite so mercenary.”

“You know, I’ve never actually played monopoly before,” Jack said, her tone slightly less harsh than usual. “That’s pretty pathetic for a human. Since we invented the game and all.”

“You’re sure there are no explosions in this game?” Grunt asked again. When it had been explained to him, he’d liked the idea of conquering his enemies, but not the methods involved.

“There might be a few in the ‘Chance’ cards,” Shepard consoled him. He knew for a fact that one of them read ‘An asteroid falls on your colony. Lose 300 credits.’ Maybe that would appease the destruction-hungry krogan. “Okay, everybody ready? Let’s get this game started.”


	10. What Are Clowns Hiding?

Garrus followed Shepard through the Citadel’s shopping district, surprised by how many humans there were here these days. And not just adults – there seemed to be dozens of human children as well, darting in and out of people’s legs, running here and there.

And then he saw something, the likes of which he’d never seen before in his life. A new species? A genetic experiment gone wrong? He pulled to a stop and grabbed Shepard’s sleeve to get her attention. “Shepard… what the hell is that?”

Shepard looked around, spied the strange creature… and groaned. “Oh god, not clowns! I though we’d quarantined them all back on Earth.”

“These are Earth creatures?”

Shepard chuckled. “They’re humans dressed up in costume. To entertain the children, no doubt. They’re supposed to be funny, but I’ve always thought they were kind of creepy. Like they were hiding something.”

“What would they be hiding?”

“Aside from some very bad acting skills and a poor sense of humor? I don’t know, maybe a pack of C4 strapped to their chests, ready to detonate in a crowded room.”

The clown closest to them dropped a feather, bent down to pick it up and ‘accidentally’ blew it further away. He repeated the move, slowly making his way across the courtyard towards a turian officer. The officer glanced up from his data pad briefly, before ignoring the clown. 

Once he was only a few metres away, the clown suddenly ripped open his oversized jacket, pulled out a pistol and shot the officer through the head.

Shepard and Garrus had drawn their weapons and returned fire before the turian hit the floor. The clown dropped with a thud, and they approached cautiously, ready to follow up the first bullet with a second, and then a third, if necessary. But the clown was dead.

Shepard tugged open the clown’s jacket and perused his arsenal of weapons – grenades, cryo-ammo, two more guns. He looked like a one man demolition team.

Shepard stepped back with a sigh, eyeing the fallen turian. “See?” she said. “I always knew clowns were hiding something.”


	11. Salarians Have Wiggly Arms

Purgatory was full, music pounding, the place packed with members of every species.

“The asari are amazingly graceful,” Cortez noted. “So light on their feet, so flexible. Every one of them.”

“I suppose a couple of hundred years of practice could make anyone into a good dancer,” Shepard agreed dryly. The human dancers were more of a mixed bag, some graceful, elegant, sensual, while others lacked even the most basic sense of rhythm. The turians, too, were a patchy lot, many of them unable to lose their habitual military rigidity. A few hanar were on the dance floor, their ‘dancing’ seeing to consist of a lot of tentacle waving. Even a volus was in the thick of things, bobbing up and down in place. But for all his lack of moves, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“There aren’t any quarians dancing,” Tali complained, scanning the crowd.

“They’re all too worried you’d show them up as soon as you took the floor,” Garrus said, a rumbling undertone to his voice. 

Tali didn’t reply, but it was easy to imagine her blushing beneath her helmet. Her relationship with Garrus currently consisted of a steady diet of flirting, but Shepard was confident that in time, it would develop into more stable territory.

And then a new group wandered up the stairs and onto the dance floor. Five salarians, looking eager but also a little self-conscious.

Shepard and his companions watched the group – salarians dancing was a rare thing. After a few minutes, Grunt made a contemplative sound. “Salarians have wiggly arms,” he said, and Shepard thought that summed up the dancing nicely.


	12. See? Four. Pay up.

“I bet I can shoot more pyjacks than you,” the little krogan runt said. Through hard work and consistent effort – and no small amount of head butting – he was slowing proving his place in the ranks of young krogan. But on the battle field, he was still considered weak, though admittedly fast and cunning, but lacking the clout of his larger brethren. 

But he was getting awfully good with a pistol, and in a few more years he might be big enough to use a shotgun.

“Of course you can’t,” said the ringleader. “You’re too small.”

“But I’m faster than you,” the runt insisted. I bet you ten credits I can shoot more than you.”

The larger krogan looked amused. “Make it 20 and you’ve got a bet.”

The runt hesitated. 20 credits was a lot of money for a young krogan. But he wanted to prove himself, needed to, over and over again to maintain his standing in his peer group.

“You’re on,” he said bravely.

 

Ten minutes later, they had an audience, a referee and a set of rules for the match, as well as three more contestants in the competition. The rules were that they could each only use a pistol, there was a three minute time limit, and baiting the pyjacks with food was forbidden. And only dead pyjacks were included in the total – injured ones didn’t count. The full 100 credits went to the winner – it was a small fortune, but the runt wasn’t interested in the money. No, he was only doing this for his pride, his father’s honor, his status in the pack.

“Time begins in three,” the referee said. “Two… one… begin!”

The contestants leapt up onto the crates overlooking the pyjack nests and bullets started flying. But the rodents were quicker than they looked. The first minute went by and no one had shot anything successfully. The runt paused for a moment, watching the pyjacks’ movements. The way they switched direction. The way they turned their heads and shifted the weight on their hind legs…

He lined up the next shot, fired… and crowed in flee as a pyjack went down. But his joy was short lived as two other krogan also shot their first one, and he glanced at the clock. 55 seconds left.

The din of gunfire got louder as the competitors pulled out all stops in the final minute. Pyjacks tumbled, thermal clips went flying, and then came the inevitable bellow of “TIME!” from the referee. The last echo of the shots faded away and the krogan stared out over the battlefield.

“I shot three!” one krogan yelled. 

“I only got two,” another said morosely.

One krogan remained silent – he hadn’t shot anything – and the ringleader puffed his chest out. “I got three as well. Okay, runt, what did you get?”

“I knew I could shoot more than you,” the runt couldn’t help gloating. “See? Four. Pay up.”

The ringleader stared at the field in disbelief. And there, in the runt’s patch of turf, were four dead pyjacks. “I’ll be damned,” the ringleader said, handing over the 100 credits. “Next time we play ‘Battlemasters and Thresher Maws’, you’re on my team.”


	13. Gimme More Fish Dog Food Shack

"Gimme more, Gimme more fish dog food shack!"

"Ugh, I hate that song!" Shepard winced as the jingle played from the advertising terminal in the Citadel's shopping district. A marketing blitz meant that it had been everywhere lately, on every ad terminal, all over the extranet. It was even playing in the Citadel elevators.

Unfortunately for Shepard, Grunt chose that moment to decide he was hungry. "Hey Shepard? Can we get some food?"

"Let me guess. You want Fish Dog Food Shack."

"Right. Heh heh heh. They have Space Meals!"

"They have what?" Shepard asked, as he led the way towards the nearest outlet. 

"Space meals," Garrus filled him in. "Child-sized meals that come with an action figure. They've got Saren, Matriarch Benezia, various asari commandos, three krogan battle masters, the turian councillor, a salarian scientist, a model of the Normandy, and... uh..."

"And?"

"And Commander Shepard!" Grunt declared gleefully. 

"What? They've got an action figure of me?"

They'd arrived at the food stand, and Grunt proceeded to order nine different meals. They were sized for children, after all, and he was a full grown krogan. Shepard got himself a burger, while Garrus found a nearby sushi stand for his meal of choice, and they found themselves seats at the tables.

Grunt started tearing into his packages eagerly, delighted when he came up with a figurine of Matriarch Benezia - "I've bought twenty three meals, and never got one of these before!!!" - a copy of the Normandy - "Now I can fly my own ship. Heh heh heh." - and, much to Shepard's horror, a miniature version of himself.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be Commander Shepard. The quality of the models was *ahem* lacking some details, and he looked like something out of 'Night of the Living Dead'. His face was barely recognizable, two fat splotches of blue for eyes, and not much else in the way of facial features. His hands were too large, his legs too long, and he was wearing the most hideous rendition of the Alliance uniform he'd ever seen.

"Another Shepard!" Grunt crowed. "Now I've got seven of these." He started playing with two of the figures, getting miniature Shepard to beat up miniature Benezia. And if that wasn't bad enough, he then started humming the jingle for Fish Dog Food Shack. 

Shepard tried to ignore it, but as the play-fight got more vicious, tiny-Shepard stomping on tiny-Benezia's head, Grunt broke into song. "Gimme more, gimme more fish dog food shack. When you've got the munchies, you need to find a snack... gimme more, GIMME MORE fish dog food shack."

Shepard gave Garrus a pained look as bystanders started to take notice of them.

Garrus chuckled, then shrugged. "Don't blame me, Shepard. You were the one who got him out of the tank."


	14. Who's a Space Cowboy? Me!

"What in the world?" Shepard stared at Grunt, who had some bizarre-looking plastic contraption stuck on his head and the forequarters of a plastic space cow held in front of him.

"Another gift from Fish Dog Food Shack," Garrus said as he wandered by. They're doing a promotion for the new Blasto movie. Gorton the Salarian becomes Blasto's sidekick in this one, and he's been a huge hit with the younger crowd." He took another look at Grunt, 'galloping' the space cow about the CIC. “And with the young at heart, it seems."

"And the thing on his head?"

"They're supposed to be salarian horns. Gorton and Blasto get stranded on a deserted planet, and Gorton takes to riding the space cows to get around."

Grunt galloped past them, then pulled up his 'cow' with a strange bellowing sound. "Who's a space cowboy?" he asked gleefully, then, without waiting for an answer, yelled, "ME!" and galloped off again.

"Blasto 12, is it?" Shepard asked, and Garrus nodded. "Remind me to give it a miss, this time around."


	15. I'm Sad Hanar Can't Wear Sweaters

Preparing to head out into the cold wilderness of Novaria, Shepard and his crew stopped in at ‘The Sweater Shop’, as the sign so proudly proclaimed. ‘Sweaters for (almost) every species’, a smaller sign boasted, and he led Grunt and Garrus inside, certain that the sign was mere hyperbole…

Until he got a look at how utterly _huge_ the place was. Rows and rows of sweaters, for humans, for asari, for salarians. They had all manner of slogans and pictures decorating them, patterns of swirls and circles and diamonds, every color imaginable. 

Not caring too much about fashion – he was here to keep warm, not make a statement – Shepard quickly chose a sweater in a plain blue color, and was about to make his way to the checkout when he noticed a different one. It bore the slogan ‘AIs are people, too’. He glanced at his plain blue sweater… back at the slogan… then switched them, taking the sloganed one with him.

Further into the shop, there were more sweaters. Larger ones for turians, and larger still for the krogan. Grunt gleefully chose one with a picture of Kalros killing a reaper on the front. It had become something of a defining moment of the war for the krogan. Garrus chose one with a collage of guns all over it. 

On the way to the checkout, they passed yet more sweaters. There were ones for quarians and the volus, designed to be worn over the top of their environmental suits. Huge bed-sheet sized covers for the Elcor. Ones with black and red designs, mostly of quite violent scenes for the vorcha, and psychedelic swirling patterns for the batarians. It really did seem they had every species covered.

They approached the checkout and Shepard paid for their purchases, and just as they were about to leave, Grunt turned to the attendant and asked the question that had been niggling at the back of Shepard’s mind. “Why does the sign say sweaters for _almost_ every species? Which ones did you leave out?”

The shop attendant looked sad. “We don’t have any sweaters for hanar.”

“Why not?” Shepard asked.

“Hanar can’t wear sweaters,” the attendant explained. “We’ve tried to invent them. They have reactions to almost every fabric imaginable, both natural and synthetic. We’ve tried wetsuit styled sweaters to accommodate their water-loving skin, we’ve tried self-irrigating sweaters, we’ve even tried ones that were kept away from their skin with a mass effect field. It’s no good. They all say they’re too uncomfortable and cause their skin to break out in rashes.”

They left the shop, put on their own sweaters and headed for the exit bay. It wasn’t until they’d cleared security and were about to head outside that Shepard noticed that Grunt seemed out of sorts. “What’s up, Grunt? Worried about the blizzard? The mako will get us through.”

“What?” Grunt looked startled. “No, I’m not worried about some puny storm. Bring it on.” He smacked one fist into his other hand. 

“Then what’s got you so down?”

Grunt shrugged. “I’m just thinking about what the guy in that shop said.” He stroked his own sweater affectionately. “I’ve got such a nice sweater, with Kalros causing such glorious destruction… It’s just so sad hanar can’t wear sweaters.”


	16. I'm a Pretty Bird

Grunt stopped in front of the wide doors and knocked. A small metal panel bearing the Blood Pack’s symbol slid open and a rough krogan voice asked “What’s the password?”

Grunt winced. He’d had an extended argument with Shepard about coming here, had insisted he send one of the other crew. Tali, perhaps, or Miranda. But as Shepard had pointed out, the Blood Pack consisted largely of vorcha and krogan. Anyone else would have no hope at all of infiltrating their base. So Grunt was it. It wasn’t the attack on the Blood Pack’s base that bothered him. It wasn’t going in alone, without back up. No, what bothered him was that ridiculous phrase he’d have to say to get in, the very thought of it an affront to his status as warrior.

He glared at the narrow eye peering at him through the slot and ground out the answer. “I’m a pretty bird.” He winced again as he said it, cursing whatever idiot had come up with a password like that.

The panel slid shut, then the door opened, allowing Grunt entrance. The groups of krogan loitering inside eyed him suspiciously, but Grunt glared back and pounded his fist into his hand, and they quickly found more interesting things to look at.

Grunt moved further into the compound, then spotted their contact in a far corner. The vorcha mole wanted immunity for various crimes he had committed in exchange for this favour, and Shepard’s spectre status had conveniently smoothed over the details.

Grunt arrived at the vorcha’s side, glare still in place. “Ready to fight?” The vorcha asked quietly. “Ready to kill?”

“Yeah,” Grunt replied flatly. “Where’s this back door?”

The vorcha led the way down a long corridor to a small service hatch at the far end. Grunt clamped his wide hands over the grid and pulled. The metal groaned in protest, then gave, the grid tearing off its brackets, and moments later, Shepard and Tali were crawling through the gap, armed and ready to cause havoc.

“Bargain complete?” the vorcha whined at Shepard. “Free to go?”

“Yeah, you can go,” he said dismissively, checking his weapons, and the vorcha disappeared into the service tunnel.

Shepard turned to Grunt with a grin. “Ready to cause some mayhem?”

Grunt chuckled and pulled out his shotgun. “That’s my favourite kind of fun.”


	17. I am the Law

The volus behind the desk looked at Grunt. It wasn’t possible to see his expression, but Grunt imagined from his tone that he might be wearing an look of exasperated disbelief. 

Grunt stared back blankly.

“So you want me to transfer funds from the Spectre account onto your credit chit?” the volus clarified, event though Grunt felt he had made it perfectly clear what he wanted. 

“Yes,” he replied. “Shepard said he would authorise the transfer.”

The volus checked his terminal again. “I’m sorry, but there is no such authorisation. Perhaps I should call Shepard and check?”

“He’s in a council meeting.” That was, in fact, the very reason why he had sent Grunt to buy supplies, had said he would transfer the funds for him. They were only on the Citadel for a brief time and Shepard didn’t want any delays in heading for their next destination. “You’ve seen me with Shepard before,” Grunt pointed out. “You know I work with him. So giving me access to his funds is entirely lawful.”

“When it comes to the accounts under my control,” the volus said haughtily, “I am the law. And I will not be transferring any funds without the proper authorisation.”

Grunt glared at the volus. This ‘simple’ assignment was not going at all well.

 

Exactly two minutes later, the volus handed the credit chit to Grunt, with 20 000 credits newly transferred onto it. “Thank you for doing business with us,” he said, strain showing in his voice. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Grunt said amiably. It was so nice working with species that were dependant on enviro-suits, he thought as he walked away. Threaten to blow a hole in the suit and all sorts of ‘impossible’ things suddenly became utterly reasonable.


	18. Are You Talking to Me? You Must Be Talking to Me.

“I’m surprised krogan are allowed into this bar.” To any outside observation, Shepard didn’t move at the droning comment from the elcor. The huge creature stood at the far end of the bar, drinking some blue concoction out of a bucket. Shepard waited, both to see if Grunt, seated beside him, had heard, and if the elcor was going to continue. He, Garrus and Grunt had arrived only minutes ago, determined to drown their collective woes in a flood of alcohol. But it looked like a peaceful drink was not to be had.

“With self-righteous indignation: Krogan are too violent for civilised settings. The one at the end of the bar is ruining the atmosphere.”

It seemed the elcor had had a fair amount to drink already, or he wouldn’t have been provoking a krogan. They were a formidable species, even for the larger elcor. Grunt had either not heard, or chosen to ignore the first comment. At the second one, he sat up and looked around, reptilian eyes locking onto the elcor.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked, in as soft and civilised a tone as a krogan could manage.

The elcor glanced over. “Dismissively: Of course not. I was talking to the bartender.”

Grunt stood up. “Well, you’re talking about krogan. And there’s no other krogan here. So you must be talking to me.”

“Indignantly: You see. Krogan lack basic manners. This one is very rude.”

The salarian bartender glanced at Grunt, then back at the elcor… then discretely hid himself underneath the bar.

Grunt looked to Shepard, and he allowed himself to believe that the newly liberated tank-bred krogan was asking for permission to fight. And Shepard was just about pissed off enough after a day full of bureaucratic stuff ups that he was willing to blow off some steam. It had been a while since he’d had a good old fashioned bar fight. He gave Grunt a nod. “Stick to fists and not guns, and we can do whatever you like.”

Grunt chuckled to himself. Threw back his drink in one gulp. Went to stand before the elcor. Shepard and Garrus shadowed him, grinning widely.

“Now,” said Grunt. “What was it you were saying about krogan?”

 

Half an hour later, the bouncers finally succeeded in throwing Shepard and his crew out of the bar. In the end, Grunt had agreed to leave only because they’d given him two free bottles of ryncol. The fight had been long and very satisfying, especially after two other elcor and a salarian had joined in. 

“This is why I follow you, battlemaster,” Grunt said reverently to Shepard., twisting the top off one of his bottles. “Even when we’re relaxing, we still find people to fight with.”


End file.
